


Recall

by ultharkitty



Series: Twister [2]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abducted by the Combaticons, First Aid struggles to work out what Vortex wants with him, and how he can possibly escape.</p><p>Content advice: abduction, non-con (plug-n-play, tactile and energy fields), manipulation of various kinds including sexual, graphic violence, dark themes.</p><p>This is the sequel to Twister, and picks up several months after Vortex's rescue from the Ark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Naboru_narluin, for the 28 Combaticons challenge. Naboru gave me the prompts ‘Vortex, well-shagged, undeserved’. Immense thanks go to Naboru for beta, encouragement and putting up with my enthusiastic flailing. And also to Casusfere and Caia whose input was invaluable :D

  
**Prologue**   


 

First Aid awoke to a cliché.

First of all, he had no idea where he was.

Well, he was on a bunk, with someone's severed door dangling over his head. But although that gave him a rather nasty hint, it was far from conclusive.

Second of all, he had no idea how he'd got there.

Third of all, he had no idea what he'd been doing to ache this much.

And fourth – and worst - of all, why for the love of Cybertron was Vortex sprawled unconscious over his legs?

A strangled whimper broke the silence, and it was a moment before First Aid realised that he'd made the noise himself.

Oh no, this couldn't be happening. _All right_ , he thought, _so you’re in a room alone with Vortex and your comms aren’t working. Don't panic; panicking will not help. Take stock of the situation, keep calm, your team will come get you._ He could sense them along the gestalt bond, feel their concern and determination, their fear bubbling away underneath it all. Thank the Matrix, they were looking for him.

First Aid cycled air through his vents, trying to ignore the odour of old energon and used oil. He knew that he was trembling, but didn't think he could stop. Vortex groaned and stretched, one arm dangling off the edge of the bunk. His visor flickered, adding another dim and sinister light to the room. Wincing, First Aid wrenched his legs from under the copter and backed up in the nearest corner, hugging his knees to his chest.

He had a feeling that he ought to be running, but he wasn't even sure he could stand.

Vortex made a drowsy sound, muffled by his mask. He hauled his arm back onto the bunk, and activated his comms. "Hey Wildrider, bring us some energon, yeah?"

The reply was quick and a little stilted. "Slag you, Tex, this ain't a hotel. What’d your last slave die of?"

"How the frag should I know? Space eels? Something like that. You wanna get us that energon or you want me to tell Hook what you did with his laser saw?"

"Frag you!" Wildrider snapped, then paused. “All right,” he grumbled. “Whatever.” The channel closed.

Vortex stretched again, his rotors quivering, and turned to First Aid. "Let me guess," he said. "You don't know how you got here or what you've been doing?"

First Aid shook his head. Without meaning to, he glanced at the door, then around the room. There were glossy black sheets of volcanic glass and disorderly piles of datasticks. Fragments of machinery and ordnance lay heaped in the corners, and segments of armour hung from chains fastened to the ceiling.

"Shame," Vortex said. "We had a good time. I would have waited, but the situation..."

Would have waited? First Aid shuddered and tried to back into the wall. Hold on... the situation?

"Did you run a diagnostic on your memory banks?" Vortex asked. He sounded serious, a little concerned. It was unnerving.

"No," First Aid lied; an automatic subroutine had been working on it since he came online. Two weeks were missing. Two whole weeks, with only fragments of uncorrupted data glistening like diamonds in coal. He filed them away, not wanting to know. What if he'd been here for the whole fortnight? In this room, on this bunk. Oh Sigma, no.

"So..." Vortex trailed a talon along the berth towards First Aid’s trembling feet. "What _do_ you remember?"

"Nothing," First Aid snapped. He tucked his feet closer to his chassis and tried not to shake. "And... and I don't want to."

Vortex sat up; where he wasn't covered in scratches, he was smeared with flecks of red and white paint. His battle mask slid aside. First Aid flinched, but Vortex didn’t actually _do_ anything. He wasn’t even smiling. It was creepy.

"Some people would say that’s not healthy,” Vortex commented. “But you know, whatever. Want me to nibble on your wheel rims?”

“What? No! Why are you even asking that?”

“You really don’t remember anything, do you?” Vortex looked genuinely stunned.

There was a dull thump at the door. “Hey!” a voice yelled, muffled by several layers of solid metal. “You want this energon or not?”

When Vortex opened the door, Wildrider tried to shove his head inside, optics brightening at the sight of First Aid on the bunk.

“Woah!” He ducked back in the corridor, as Vortex loomed to fill the doorway. “Don’t I get to look at him?” Wildrider protested. “I brought you the energon didn't I? Ha! You got all white on you.”

* * *

  


  
  
**Chapter 1**   
  


  


  
_Three weeks before_   


"Watch out!" Blades yelled. Transforming in mid air, he caught First Aid around the waist and tumbled them both over the edge of the ravine.

They landed hard, a messy tumble of limbs and rotors. Above them, there was nothing but laser fire and the occasional plume of smoke.

"Wow, that was close," Blades said. First Aid patted him on the arm and hauled him up.

"Good thing I had a soft landing," he said.

"Ha, yeah." Blades shook himself, causing a small rockslide. "Don't want to be the sugar in the gas tank or nothing, but you gotta be more combat aware."

First Aid spun Blades around and gave his rotors a quick inspection. He thought of the dark shadow he hadn't seen until it was almost on top of him, that quick glimpse of grasping hands and intense, red optics before Blades had knocked him out of reach.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

* * *

  


  
_Two weeks before_   


Fireflight and Slingshot passed overhead, so low that Defensor could feel the air part to let them through. Above them, their team mates whirled, engaging the seekers in a maelstrom of bullets and wings, and on the nearest hill, in the shadow of the latest doomsday device, Optimus had Megatron in a headlock.

Defensor considered helping, but there were other, more pressing concerns. Reaching up as high as his long arms would allow, he caught hold of the device's complex nozzle. There was no time to react to the barrage of laser fire, nor the constant pounding of shell. He heaved, breaking the nozzle in two, and bringing the slender web of fragile crystal and metal raining to the ground.

His task complete, he turned to repel the enemy, and disintegrated under the impact of a direct shot from Onslaught’s sonic stun gun.

* * *

First Aid wasn't sure how, but he landed underground. Initial investigation revealed a broken cellar door beneath his aft, and the walls of a natural cave between seven and fifteen mechanometers in any direction. A low rack of wine bottles rocked back and forth beside his right hand. He steadied them so they wouldn’t fall.

Ripped so quickly out of combined mode, his audio sensors rang with white noise and his processor was muzzy. He gave himself a quick inspection. Nothing broken, just a stinging line of scorch marks all the way down his chassis, and an odd chip out of one of his knuckles.

Accessing the gestalt programming, he saw that his team mates were alive; as dazed and unsteady as he was, but otherwise unhurt. Their relieved laughter vibrated along the bond. He joined in, sitting back and waiting for his CPU to stop spinning.

Outside, the battle seemed to be winding down. Hot Spot's head appeared in the hole where the cellar door used to be.

"How'd you get all the way down there?" he called. "You OK?"

"I'm fine," First Aid replied.

"You need any help getting out? Blades can winch you."

"I'll be fine, really." First Aid reached under his backside and hauled out the cellar door. It was holding together quite well, all things considered. "Besides," he said. "I ought to fix this before I come out. I appear to have broken it."

"All right," Hot Spot agreed. "Hollar if you need a hand."

"Will do."

* * *

 

The humans who owned the cellar came over to see what he was doing, but left after only a few words. Understandable, considering what had just happened on their doorstep. Above ground, Huffer and Gears were still clearing up, while Hoist and Grapple disassembled the remains of the failed doomsday device, chattering loudly as they worked.

First Aid put the finishing touches to the cellar door. He hoped the humans would find it acceptable, it was the least he could do to make up for things. He tested the hinges, then flung the doors wide and prepared to see if he really could jump high enough to get out without any help. He wasn't sure, but Hoist was outside if he was needed.

"Gotcha!" He heard the snarl only an astrosecond before something clamped around his head and everything went blank.

* * *

He awoke to the sound of bickering, and the whine of charging lasers.

He lay still, sightless and disoriented, and listened.

“I still think you hit him too hard!” A wheedling voice, whiny and unkind. Not abrasive enough to be Starscream, but a ‘con, certainly, and one he almost recognised.

“I did not!” The second voice was deeper, rougher, and full of righteous indignation. “I know how to hit a mech.”

“Lower your vocal output, both of you.” This one sounded like it came over a PA system. The floor rocked, and a distant engine roared.

“Get slagged,” the first voice muttered. “Stuck up fraggin’ shuttle. Always was a junk getaway ride.”

“I heard that,” the PA system responded. “Brawl, can’t you shut Swindle up? Maybe we should dump him on the Moon.”

Brawl? Swindle? Please Sigma no… First Aid tensed and grasped for the gestalt bond. He fumbled, processor spinning, and accessed the programming only after the third try. He couldn’t stop his fans from kicking in, and hoped beyond hope that they were quieter than the din of Blast Off’s engines.

“Shut up, Swin,” Brawl snarled.

“Frag you!” Swindle yelled. “Stupid tank. If you want them stim viruses, you ain’t gonna let mister high and mighty here dump me on the Moon!”

“I can still smack you one,” Brawl said.

First Aid groped along the bond, following his team mates’ laughter, the glow of their companionship. _In trouble!_ he called after them, _need assistance!_ But the words were lost in a gulf of panic and dread, and all he got in return was a shock of confusion, a spark of something that might have been realisation. Then nothing.

“Frag,” Swindle said, his voice altogether too close for comfort. “I forgot to turn on the signal dampeners. Vortex is gonna be torqued.”

* * *

Vortex was indeed torqued.

First Aid stood with his back against a crate, wrists cuffed together, and tried not to dissolve into a puddle of fear. Brawl slouched next to him, laughing nastily while Vortex kicked the scrap out of Swindle in the middle of the hangar floor. It was… educational, First Aid thought. Not to mention terrifying.

Behind Vortex, Blast Off transformed, a mass of planes and angles all folding in on one another until only his root mode remained. The shuttle sighed, gave Brawl a quick glance, and stalked off without a single word.

After a while, Brawl’s laughter dwindled. “Hey Tex,” he said. “I think he’s had enough.”

Vortex looked up, crimson optics gleaming through a veil of energon. On the floor, Swindle groaned, one hand twitching. Vortex stepped, slowly and carefully, on his fingers; Swindle screamed.

“Looks like,” Vortex replied. “Maybe one day he’ll learn to listen.”

First Aid trembled. He could only imagine what was next. Interrogation? Torture? Revenge? He had no idea. He couldn’t run, couldn’t contact his team, could hardly sense them along the gestalt bond. Everything was glitched, from his hydraulics to his motor relay to his sensor net. Even his energy field was patchy, incomplete. His fans hadn’t stopped whirring since he woke up in the shuttle, but he didn’t feel warm. Not consistently, anyway. It came in waves, heat and cold, all overlaid by a sickening sheen of dread.

Vortex dragged Swindle by the ankle and dumped him at Brawl’s feet. “All yours,” he said, cheerfully. “And this one,” he took hold of the cuffs between First Aid’s hands. “Is all mine.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Combaticons had brought him to the Nemesis, that much was clear. The purple walls, the occasional view of dank ocean floor outside a porthole, the sheer number of Decepticons who turned to stare as Vortex walked him quietly and calmly from the hangar to wherever it was they were going. It was loud and echoey, and every so often the PA system would buzz to life and Soundwave could be heard issuing some unintelligible coded command.

By the time Vortex pulled him into a dimly lit room and coded the door shut behind them, First Aid was ready to collapse.

“All right,” Vortex said. “You stand there a minute, I need to move a few things.”

First Aid backed up against the door, his entire frame rattling.

Vortex gave him a look, but the meaning was hidden beneath his battle mask. “Maybe you oughta sit down,” he said, and tugged First Aid over to a chair.

First Aid stared at it, searching for chains or straps or spikes or... he had no idea. Unpleasant things. But it was just an ordinary chair, grey metal with a padded plastic seat. The kind of thing you'd usually find in an office, not in a... whatever this was. Storage locker? Trophy room? Surely it couldn't be a recharge chamber? Although there was what looked like a recharge station over in an alcove. And a bank of dark machinery whose purpose First Aid really didn’t want to know.

"The sitting down part?" Vortex prompted; his visor was still smeared with energon from his attack on Swindle. "I don't want you falling over, you could hurt yourself."

What on Earth was that supposed to mean? First Aid cringed into the chair, dazed and dizzy. He didn't like having his back to the door, anyone could come in. And as for the room itself; it looked like a physical manifestation of Vortex's chaotic mind. So many reflective surfaces, so many spare parts that looked like they'd been torn viciously from their owners, so many shelves of strange and alien objects. It was horrible; First Aid shivered so hard the chair legs rattled against the floor.

Vortex gave him a curious look. "You're a whole lot quieter than last time we met," he said. First Aid stared hard at his feet. The last time they'd met... Vortex had been imprisoned in the Ark, and First Aid had shot out his vocaliser at point blank range through the bars of his cell. He searched for any dregs of courage he had left; this was going to be bad.

"Thirsty?" Vortex asked.

"Huh?"

"Are you thirsty, bored, tired, what?" Vortex dipped a keycard into the energon cuffs, which released with a faint sizzle.

"What?" First Aid couldn't quite get his processor synched up with his mouth. Why had Vortex let him go? Was he meant to run, was that it? He could imagine the copter planning that. Letting him go, here, in this strange room full of crazy objects, then hunting him through the corridors of the Nemesis until he was too tired and too weak to run, too lost to hide. Or until another Decepticon got hold of him. He stayed resolutely in the chair; he wouldn't be a party to that.

Vortex took a hold of his hands and lightly stroked his fingers, a repulsive gentle pressure that made First Aid want to crawl into a corner and never come out.

"I don't want to hurt you," Vortex said, and even through the fog of confusion, First Aid couldn't help but note how different that was from, ‘I'm not going to hurt you'. "I don't want you in the cuffs, either, but I'm going to have to secure you to something," Vortex continued. "Can't have you offlining yourself when I'm not here."

Offlining himself? The thought was abhorrent. How could he do that, when his team were looking for him? When there were people he should be helping, useful things he should be doing. Offlining Vortex was a better thought, but even that made him distinctly queasy. He'd tried before, and failed. It just wasn't in his programming, and Vortex seemed to know it.

"Talk to me," Vortex said. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to go home," First Aid replied, stunned at the crackle in his own voice.

Vortex's grip tightened just a little. "Tell me something you want that I'm willing to let you have."

First Aid couldn’t find the strength to pull his hands away. An icy prickle spread through his circuits. “No,” he said, quietly. “You tell me what _you_ want.”

“You,” Vortex said, simply. “And oh look, I’ve got you. Next question.”

First Aid struggled to think back to his training, to the joor upon joor with Jazz and Bumblebee and Ironhide. What to do if he was captured, what to say, how to act; how to handle being interrogated. But this wasn’t an interrogation. At least, it didn’t bear the hallmarks. Eventually, his fuel lines knotting in dread of the answer, he settled on one word: “Why?”

Vortex’s optics flickered, head tilted to one side. He would have looked comical if he wasn’t so utterly terrifying. But before he could answer - if he was planning on answering at all - a buzzer sounded and the door opened. "Hey, Ons," Vortex didn't bother to look up.

"Please tell me you didn't put Swindle in stasis..." Onslaught paused, the door swooshing shut behind him. "Well," he said. "This explains a lot."

First Aid cringed, staring down at his hands. And at Vortex's hands wrapped around them. He tried to find somewhere else to look.

"Is Swindle in stasis lock?" Vortex asked, his optics on First Aid. "I didn't think I hit him that hard."

Must have been the repeated kicks to the head that did it, First Aid thought. He shrank from the image; it was a reminder that Vortex could very easily do the same to him.

"Starscream doesn't think you should have hit him at all," Onslaught sighed. "Although I can't imagine why." He turned his attention to First Aid. "You’d better be planning on sharing."

First Aid tensed, his engine stuttering.

"Now you've gone and scared him," Vortex commented. He stood, pulling First Aid out of the chair, and dragged him over to the recharge station. First Aid's servos whined as he attempted to struggle, to pull his hands away, but to his horror and shame he hardly fought at all. Dizzy, he couldn’t follow what Vortex was doing. A pressure registered on his left foot, a small tingle of current which ran the length of his axle. Oh no, what were they planning now? He couldn't fight, could barely think; limp with terror, he lay his head on the firm plastic surface, and waited.

"Come on," Onslaught said. "Time to kiss some seeker aft."

"Mmm," Vortex said. "Sounds like fun." He pressed something into First Aid's hand, and whispered close by his audial, "Back soon."

* * *

How in Sigma’s name had he managed to recharge? First Aid jolted upright, slamming himself into the corner. A chain rattled, slipping off the berth and tugging a little on his ankle. It hummed, electrified, sending a sharp jolt of pain right the way up his leg struts.

He vented hard, and waited for the hurt to ebb away.

The object Vortex had given him had fallen on the floor. A flattish black box with buttons, it looked like a TV remote. Could be linked to the monitors opposite the recharge station. It was probably booby trapped. First Aid left it alone.

He hugged his knees to his chassis. At least he wasn't shivering any more. A low fuel warning beeped, but he ignored it. _Please_ , he tried to scream down the gestalt bond, _hurry up and get me!_ He could sense his team, their uneasy hopefulness, their busy dread, but he couldn't get through to them.

After a while, he lay down and cut his engine. Fuel conservation, he thought, first priority. Second priority: escape. He recalled the stories, daring tales of Autobots taken to the Nemesis who'd got out all by themselves – through stealth or cunning, or sheer force of firepower. Jazz and Blaster, Bumblebee and Sunstreaker; but they were warriors, all of them. First Aid hadn’t had that kind of training.

He ran a diagnostic on his systems, ever watchful in case the gestalt bond should suddenly open. His comms were functional, but he couldn't get a signal, and he had no idea what or where the signal dampeners were that Swindle had mentioned. Looking around the room, he realised he had no real idea what anything was, and the few identifiable objects would only be useful if he could reach them.

So what if his armour was uncompromised? So what if the only things physically wrong with him were scorched paintwork and a few minor dents? As soon as Vortex returned, all his strength would ebb away and he'd be useless. Just like before.

And until Vortex returned, he had neither the know-how nor the wherewithal to get loose from the chain and rig up a new weapon out of the contents of the room.

Something scraped against the door. Oh no, Vortex was back. But the scraping continued, a sound like someone jimmying the lock. After an astrosecond or two, a nervous-looking mech stumbled into the room, forcing the door shut behind him.

It was a long moment before he noticed First Aid. "Oh frag," the newcomer said. He glanced around, then dived straight at the recharge station. First Aid yelped, but the mech missed him, burrowing under the bunk. "I'm not here," he hissed. "Tell anyone I'm here and I'll shoot you!"

First Aid didn't bother to reply. A set of heavy footsteps boomed along the corridor, and a deep, malevolent voice roared, "Breakdown! Where the slag are you?" The door rattled, as though hit by something large. "Vortex, you've got until I stop speaking to quit whatever sick and twisted thing you're doing in there, I'm coming in."

The door squealed on its bearings, and a very large mech appeared, silhouetted in the light from the corridor. "Breakdown!" Motormaster boomed, glaring around the room. He noticed First Aid. "Where is he?" he demanded.

First Aid shivered against the berth. Judging by the vibrations, Breakdown was shivering just as hard beneath it. "I don't know!" he squeaked.

"Hmph," Motormaster snorted, taking another good look around. For some reason, he didn't cross the threshold. "Tell Vortex I was here and I'll slag you," he snarled.

OK, that was two death threats in the space of five minutes. Things just got better and better.

It was a good four breems after Motormaster left that Breakdown finally crawled out from under the bunk. First Aid kept his visor dimmed, his optics focussed on his own feet.

"Good Autobot," Breakdown said. "You just keep on not lookin’ at me. Want an energon treat?"

"Huh?" First Aid shuffled back into the corner.

Breakdown perched on the edge of the bunk, and shook a little glowing stick in First Aid's down-turned face. "Tasty?" he said. "I'll, um, I'll just leave it there." He put it down. "You won't tell Vortex that Motormaster was here, will you?"

I might not have any choice, First Aid thought. He settled for, "I'll try not to?"

"Good. You can eat that, you know, it's not poisoned." Breakdown picked up the remote control. "Hey, you get a decent perception on this thingy?"

* * *

Perception, it seemed, actually meant reception. As in TV reception.

It was surreal. Despite his apparent concern about Vortex, Breakdown stayed for a good few joors, chewing on a seemingly endless supply of energon snacks, and channel hopping whenever he got bored. Which was frequently.

The remote, it seemed, was just a remote. First Aid wasn't so sure about the energon treat, but looking at it made his engine growl, and there was always the chance that if Vortex found any trace of a visitor, there'd be hell to pay later.

"You want another one?" Breakdown asked, in the same tone one might use with a drone or a pet.

First Aid shook his head. "No thanks." He spoke before thinking. It was ridiculous to keep his manners around Decepticons, but Breakdown didn't seem to notice.

"OK," the Stunticon said abruptly. "Gotta go." He left the remote on the berth and slunk out into the corridor.

First Aid muted the TV and listened. He expected Vortex to appear, a chaos of whirling rotors and unpredictable aggression. But the corridor outside appeared to be empty. Perhaps Breakdown had left for another reason.

Decepticons were strange. There was no comparison between Hot Spot and Motormaster, but First Aid couldn't comprehend someone running from the leader of their gestalt, hiding and trembling under an enemy prisoner. It was weird. What kind of a monster did a person have to be that their team mates were afraid of them?

He had a vision of Swindle on the hangar floor, heard the crunch of breaking bearings.

First Aid shuddered and focused on the TV. A silent dance of colour, it was strange without the volume, but he wanted to hear if anyone approached.

No one did. Sure, there were footsteps all the time, the faint echo of people stomping and scuttling through the network of corridors outside, but no one came to the door. It was exhausting, sitting and waiting, then laying and waiting on the edge of recharge, as the light from the screen flickered over him and still no one came. He watched his chronometer, saw the astrosecond become breems become joors. He tried to think of a plan, but each simulation he ran ended in disaster.

At least he was alone.

He tried not to imagine what would happen when Vortex finally did come back. Tentatively, he ran a psychological profile on the copter. He didn't want to, but it was better than doing nothing. Analyse and prepare, he thought, if not physically then at least mentally. Perhaps then he could minimise the long-term damage, and maximise his chances of recovery when his team finally came to get him.

It was a horrible thought, recovery, almost smoothering the spark of hope kindled by the irregular flashes of insight as his team mates searched for him.

He ran the profile over and over, cross referencing it against case studies in his medical database. It was far from reassuring.

As the joors rolled by, he began to wonder whether Vortex had forgotten about him. The copter wasn't exactly the most balanced of people. Eight joors became ten, then fifteen. It was a long time to leave someone unless there was a purpose to the leaving.

First Aid tried to reconcile Vortex’s actions with what Ironhide and Jazz had taught him about Decepticon interrogation techniques, but the two just didn't mesh. If Vortex had wanted information, there were far quicker ways of getting it than leaving First Aid to watch TV for an entire solar cycle.

Twenty four joors, twenty five. It was strange. First Aid wondered if he was meant to be affronted, if he was supposed to grow ever more impatient and infuriated until he began to rail at hidden cameras, demanding fuel, explanations, attention. Instead, all he felt was relief.

The longer Vortex was away, the greater the chance that First Aid’s team would find him before the copter had a chance to do something truly terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know why Motormaster is chasing Breakdown, [click here for a little PG-rated ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/351209) ;)


	3. Chapter 3

It was another four joors before Vortex returned.

First Aid sat on the floor, running the electrified chain through his fingers. He’d switched the TV off a while back, and turned his attention to the gestalt bond. His tank gurgled unpleasantly at the sound of approaching footsteps, but he didn't expect the door to open.

He leapt up when the lock flashed green, whacking his helm on the side of the bunk, and dropped the chain. It fell heavily, triggering a searing pulse of current from his ankle to his CPU, and laying him flat on the floor. He hissed with the pain, his optics shorting. When his visual sensors came back online, Vortex was crouched over him, his battle mask retracted.

He was smiling.

First Aid froze. It was as though his databanks had been wiped. All of his planning and analyses, the hours he'd spent cross referencing information to prepare himself, all evaporated like ice crystals in a blast furnace.

Vortex inspected his helm, running his fingers lightly over the dinted metal. "That was unfortunate," he commented. He leaned to the side and pulled a drawer from the wall, revealing a harsh pink glow.

First Aid turned his face away, and watched the minor damage indicators flash across his HUD. There had been a drawer full of energon next to the berth all this time. A container of highly explosive liquid well within his reach, and he hadn't even noticed. Worse, he hadn't bothered searching for hidden panels, let alone obvious compartments. He felt like crying.

"Just get it over with," he said.

"Hmm?" Vortex lay a few cubes on the floor by his head. "No. Thirsty?"

First Aid sighed. The scent of the energon hit his olfactory sensors, sending his low-fuel warnings into a frenzy. He ignored them, and tried to think his way through the snarl of sensation. How on earth had he missed this? Jazz would never have missed it. What was Vortex thinking, leaving a prisoner chained up next to a load of explosives?

He had the sudden feeling that he deserved whatever happened to him. How could he have been so stupid?

He could always dive under the berth, wedge himself in so tight that not even Hoist could haul him out. But any fast movement would jerk the chain, and besides, Vortex had a knee either side of his left leg, a hand around his throat.

The copter watched him, optics flickering with constant subtle adjustments as he ran his visual sensors the length of First Aid’s abdomen. His rotors quivered, fanned out so as not to scrape on the floor. Blades would do the same when in root mode. First Aid winced; there was no comparison. How could he think of Blades at a time like this?

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” he blurted. He had to get rid of the image of Blades. It was horrible, disrespectful.

"I mean," Vortex replied, bending down until First Aid could see each photo-receptive node through the glass of his visor. "That it would be too easy, and no fun at all. For either of us."

First Aid wanted to struggle, to fight his way up and out. But his systems had become isolated, a subroutine kicking in that he didn't even know he possessed. Lie low, it said, be small, be powerless, he'll get bored after a while, he'll go looking for someone stronger.

"Retract your mask for me," Vortex said. His grip shifted, thumb pressing on First Aid's main fuel line. _Here it comes_ , First Aid thought, but the hand shifted slightly, the threatening pressure becoming a scraping caress. "Please?"

"What?" First Aid had the urge to rub his throat, to check for dents to armour and cables. "No," he said, and the word was little more than a crackle of static. The subroutine screamed at him; acquiesce, be weak, do what you're told. He ignored it.

"Then retract it for your own sake," Vortex said levelly.

First Aid shook his head.

"Back in the Ark, you told me to be honest," Vortex said. As he spoke, light glinted from a long and slender ridge which ran from his lower lip down to his throat. A welding scar. "I take it you still value honesty?"

Oh slag, is that why he'd revealed his face? "Is it because I shot you?" First Aid said. “Is that what this is about?”

"No," Vortex replied. "It isn’t. Although I would’ve liked to have been conscious to see who it was who put the clips on my fuel lines and hooked me up to the recharge dock afterwards." He brought his knees together on First Aid’s thigh. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but the Protectobot yelped in surprise, fingers scrabbling against the floor. Vortex’s smile broadened. “I haven’t brought you here to punish you,” he said.

“Feels… a lot like it,” First Aid managed. Slag the subroutine, slag the warnings, slag doing what he was told just because he might not get hurt quite as badly. This was going to hurt, no matter what. “Let me go!”

“No.” There was the sound of turning gears, and Vortex slid a talon into the tiny gap between First Aid’s battle mask and his cheek. Another small noise and a second talon intruded by his chin.

First Aid squirmed, trying to dislodge the claws, but Vortex leaned his weight onto the Autobot’s chassis. “If you want to keep this,” he said. “I suggest you retract it now.” He tugged, as though to emphasise his point, and First Aid gritted his denta. There was a pause, a few astroseconds, then another tug, another jolt of pain as tiny cables stretched and wires threatened to pull loose from their circuits.

In the end, it wasn’t the pain, or the threat of it, but the idea of losing his mask that made him roll back the thin metal. He’d been designed with that mask, he hardly ever took it off, not even with his gestalt. It was a shield of sorts, and if there was anything he needed in this place and at this time, it was a shield.

“Better,” Vortex said, tracing the curve of his lips, the planes of his cheeks. It was mortifying. “Now, on the subject of honesty. This isn’t about payback. And it isn’t about punishment. I want you, and I want you to enjoy it.”

“You’ll have to reprogram me.” First Aid wished he could manage a sneer, some cruel and dismissive twist to his faceplates. There was no way he’d interface with Vortex willingly. How unbalanced _was_ the copter?

“I doubt it,” Vortex said. “I’ve had Autobots before.” He stroked the corner of First Aid’s mouth. “There’s always something that turns you on.”

There is, First Aid thought; goodness, pure intentions, kindness, selflessness. All the things his gestalt had and were without even thinking about it. Homesickness coursed through him, intense and agonising. He wanted his team, he _needed_ them.

But what if they didn’t know where he was? What if they thought he’d gone to have some alone time, to scour his conscience and find himself. Oh frag oh frag, was that why they hadn’t stormed the Nemesis already? Was that why they hadn’t come for him?

“So, is that it?” he said, quietly. “I’m here until I agree to… to interface with you?” Maybe he could feign interest, get it over with that way. But the thought was almost as abhorrent as offlining himself. He couldn’t interface with a Decepticon. All of his medical knowledge, all of his personal files, it would be at risk… He had few notes on the regular Ark crew, they all went to Ratchet, but the mechs he patched up in the field, his own team; he carried their secrets, the small things they would only tell a medic. Nothing useful to the war, but, in Vortex’s hands anything could be a weapon.

That spear of homesickness hit again, the desperate, lonely ache for his absent team. “And you’ll let me go,” he said, “after?”

“That depends,” Vortex replied. He stood, stretching, his rotors shifting into a new position. He took First Aid by the wrist and hauled him up onto the bunk. “Help yourself to the energon.”

First Aid let himself be pulled. He slumped in the corner and tucked his knees up against his chassis. His fuel lines gurgled. “I thought you wanted…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.

“I can wait. Here, take some fuel, you sound like you’re running on fumes.” Vortex put a cube on the berth, then sprawled at the other end, rotors splayed above his head. “So, you get bored?”

What was this, time for small talk? First Aid shook his head, and tried to ignore the energon.

“You've got a crack in your knuckle. Did Brawl do that?"

First Aid considered lying, but a vision of Swindle came to mind, crumpled and leaking on the hangar floor. No matter what a thug Brawl was, he didn't deserve to be punished for something he hadn't done. "No," he said. "It happened before."

"Do you want to repair it?" Vortex asked.

First Aid folded his arms and tucked his hands away between the planes of his chest plates. "Why should I bother?"

"Looks painful. Same with that dent on your helm."

"Why do you care?"

The rotors spun slowly, seemingly moving of their own accord. "You might be more talkative if you were comfortable."

"I might be more talkative if you weren't so creepy," First Aid snapped. “No wonder your team won’t link with you.” OK, that was less than smart. He eyed the energon, calculating how quickly he could snatch up the cube and ignite the contents. About 2.7 astroseconds, he guessed, which was probably only slightly more time than it would take for Vortex to lay him out.

“Not everyone wants to live in each others’ cargo holds,” Vortex responded. “OK, I’m on duty in five. You look like you could do with some company while I’m gone.”

No! First Aid thought of the drawer of energon, the explosive potential. Company was something he could do without. “I’ll be all right,” he hazarded.

Vortex sniffed. “Yeah, you’ll only go and blow yourself up.” He raised an arm to access his communications hardware. “Hey, Drag Strip, wanna win yourself some high grade?”

* * *

Another Stunticon, another death threat. Another day, technically, although it didn’t feel like it.

Drag Strip was a violent, eye-scorching shade of yellow, with a personality to match. He flung himself on the berth, grabbed the remote and chugged back the energon.

“Get your aft in that corner and shut up,” he said, waving his gun as though it had automatic targeting. His forcefield was palpable, adding an extra sparkle to his waxed and buffed paint work. “Don’t clank that slaggin’ chain. And don’t speak over the TV. In fact, don’t speak at all. Sigma, you’re ugly. I dunno what he sees in you.”

“Maybe Starscream fragged the rest of the sense out of him,” Wildrider suggested, slipping through the doorway. He took a long look around. “Frag me sideways with a pogo stick,” he sighed. “Breakdown was right. How the pit has Vortex got cable? We don’t got cable.”

“Soundwave’s got cable,” Drag Strip said.

“Yeah, but Soundwave’s Soundwave,” Wildrider explained. “Hey, shuffle up.” He inserted himself between First Aid and Drag Strip, seemingly unconcerned that First Aid’s corner-based huddle left him facing Wildrider’s back. “Seriously, how come Vortex gets cable and we don’t?”

“I dunno,” Drag Strip said. “Maybe he fucked Soundwave for it.”

“Motormaster frags Megatron, and we don’t get zip.” Wildrider sniffed and went to pick up a cube.

Drag Strip snatched it out of his hands. “Hey, that’s mine! Get you own.”

Wildrider snarled, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by the door opening. Breakdown shuffled in, glancing around furtively.

“Woah, you got high grade!” He grinned in a sickly way, half dread and half anticipation. “What’s on? Is Oprah on? I wanna watch that thing about the cars.”

First Aid made himself as small as possible, pressed between the metal of the walls and the strident buzz of Wildrider’s forcefield. Despite Drag Strip’s admonition to be quiet, the three of them bickered ceaselessly, a tirade of chatter about everything and nothing which erupted every five minutes or so into an argument. After a long half joor of gentle persuasion, followed by a solid breem of violence, this was all assisted by Drag Strip sharing out the high grade.

First Aid half expected the other two members of the gestalt to arrive – well, one of them at least, he had trouble imagining the three sitting happily together with Motormaster around – but no-one did.

“Hey,” said Wildrider, peering over his shoulder at First Aid. “You know what’d be funny, right?”

Drag Strip’s optics flared and he grinned nastily. “Yeah,” he said, seemingly responding to a suggestion made via internal comms.

First Aid shook his head vigorously. “That wouldn’t be fun,” he said, whatever it was they were on about. “Vortex will kill you?” He tried not to make it a question, but he couldn’t help the way it came out.

“Nah,” said Drag Strip, “Rotors’ll like this. It’ll be cool. Want some high grade?”

First Aid shook his head again.

“Sure you do,” said Wildrider. “Hey, Breakdown, put it on that music channel thingy.”

Breakdown snatched the remote from Drag Strip’s thigh and held it as though he never wanted to let it go. “You could offer him an energon treat,” he said, flipping through the stations. “He likes those.”

“OK.” Wildrider turned around, kneeling on the plasteel. “Autobot wanna treat?”

“Are, um, you all supposed to be in here?” First Aid asked.

“Sure,” said Drag Strip, waggling a half-empty cube of high grade in a similar manner to the way he’d held his gun. “This is good stuff, you should try some.”

“I… don’t think so,” First Aid replied. “Thank you.”

“Awwww, ‘cmon,” Wildrider urged, his engine revving. “It’ll be fun!”

“Really, no, I shouldn’t,” First Aid said. He wondered how long he could go on like that. Polite responses were probably a novelty on the Nemesis, but it could only be so long before the novelty wore off.

“He’s got a point,” said Breakdown. “He probably shouldn’t. Dead End says high grade’s less staple than ordinary energon. He says it can lead to surges, purging, tank contamination, capacity failure-”

“Capaci _tor_ ,” Drag Strip interjected. “And it’s stable, not staple.”

“-loss of balance and sensor net function, optical outage, hallucinations, and short term memory loss.” Breakdown nodded. “And then there’s the long term maintenance implications.”

“Memory loss?” said First Aid. He remembered it from his training, but overcharge had never been a problem with his team, so he’d never had the chance to witness it first hand.

“Hey, it’s nothing to worry about,” said Wildrider. “You have _had_ high grade before right?”

First Aid nodded. It had been… not nice so much as… agreeable. Blades had brought some in. Not a lot, but enough. “About the memory loss thing -”

“It’s only temporary,” said Drag Strip.

“Uh, actually,” said Breakdown, “Dead End said-”

“The Autobot doesn’t give a scrap what Dead End said,” Drag Strip huffed. “Do you?” Those final two words were laced with menace; the novelty was obviously reaching the end of its shelf life.

“Um…”

Drag Strip thrust the cube at him, almost dropping it in his lap. “Go on, drink up. It’s great, you’ll see.”


	4. Chapter 4

When the door opened again, First Aid could rally the strength to sit up and look, but not the co-ordination. Somehow, he’d drifted further and further down the wall until he was lying outstretched behind the row of Stunticons. He couldn’t see the TV, but the wail of guitars indicated that the music program was still on.

“What have you done with my Autobot?” a familiar voice demanded. Dread and panic tried to surface, but got trapped behind a solid wall of bubbles. That settled it, high grade had been a _good_ plan.

“He’s here.” Wildrider lifted First Aid’s arm and waggled his fingers. “Look, he’s waving.”

“Out, before I slag the lot of you.” The words themselves were threatening, but the voice didn’t sound angry.

The room became a lot more spacious very quickly. First Aid turned to look at the screen; at least, his head lolled in that direction. For some reason, the humans had been replaced by dancing colours, a kaleidoscope of mutating abstract forms that reminded him of the scum at the bottom of an empty energon cube.

“You weren’t away so long that time.” Oh darn, his impulse relay appeared to have aligned itself directly with his vocaliser. Not good.

“I didn’t have a seeker to appease,” Vortex said. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Lots. Breakdown said that Dead End said that high grade can cause short term memory loss, which is true.” He was aware that he sounded stupid, but he didn’t know how to stop himself. A sickly dread wormed its way up through the haze of overcharge. “You’re gonna ‘face me now.”

“Is that an invitation?”

Um, no? Oh scrap. The music vanished, replaced by a ringing silence and the solemn hum of the ship’s support systems. “You could be a hallucination?” First Aid said hopefully.

“So, you’re inviting a hallucination to interface with you. Hmm… Offline your visual input.”

“No.” He felt like giggling, spurred on by a surge of mind-numbing dread.

“You’re difficult, aren’t you?” The world went dark as something soft fell over First Aid’s face. A cloth? He twitched at an unaccustomed pressure on his foot. A wriggling, sliding touch, which began at his shackled axle and wound its way up over his knee and along his thigh. He jerked away, writhing as the pressure dragged across sensors and lit little red sparks in the darkness.

“Shouldn’t be… doing,” he said, twisting. His cheek hit the edge of the bunk, but his legs wouldn’t move, and those little red flares lit up all over his pelvic armour, along one hip and onto his waist.

He squeaked, flinching at the scrape of lips across his abdomen, the squeeze of fingers around his middle. And a soft, steady pressure, like the subtle push of two magnets, tingling along his entire frame. He went to shove Vortex away, but somehow his hands were above his head, wrists pinned together, as immovable as if they’d been welded there.

He couldn’t tell how long it lasted; the stroking, sliding stimulation of his every external sensor, the electric buzz of what had to be Vortex’s energy field alternately pressing and tugging at his own. His internal chronometer was present, just like everything else, but he was insulated from it by a thick layer of _something_ , like foam, and he was too weak to push past it, too muzzy to think his way through. He expected the sting of claws at his interface panel, the forced removal of the cover, the invasive click of a connector. He winced in anticipation, but it never came; just the gentle undulation of hands - not talons, only fingers - exploring the planes and curves of his armour, warm air against his abdominal glass.

 _You’re taking advantage_ , he tried to say. _This isn’t right._ “Don’t!” he managed, over the hiss of his vents.

“Don’t what?” Vortex whispered. “I’m not hurting you, am I?” There was a moment of relief as Vortex paused, shifting his weight. When he brought back his hands, his touch was lighter, but no less intrusive. And all the while his energy field enveloped and teased and prickled.

“Hurts,” First Aid said, thinking: yes, of course it does. Not painful, not in a way you’d understand, but I don’t want this and it hurts. But the same systems error that had made him blurt out every impulsive thing before, now made it impossible to properly articulate his thoughts. It was as though he was only half conscious, on the verge of recharge.

He shuddered as a pulse rattled through him, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Better?” Vortex asked. First Aid squirmed at a tickling pressure on his wheel rim, tracing the curve of the flange. He shook his head and the touch moved up to his throat, his cheek, his mouth; then the gentle nibble of denta on his lower lip.

Another pulse, and he pulled as hard as he could on his arms, but they were stuck, bound up in strips of something strong and taut. A third pulse spread through him, catching at his interface hardware and making him gasp. He began to panic, immobile and helpless as his sensor net sparked in the darkness and charge built across every node.

“Please,” he murmured. “Why…” The question turned into a sob as pulse after pulse rattled through his frame, a blaze of conflicting information searing along his sensor net. A cry caught in his vocaliser as the overload tore through him. He bucked against it, back arched and hips scraping against Vortex’s thighs.

“Because,” Vortex said, “You’re perfect. I was so right about you.”

* * *

Vortex went away; he came back. It was all the same to First Aid, who huddled in the corner, head down and optics dimmed. He didn’t want to recharge, he couldn’t, but he was far from alert. The high grade still rippled through him, both insulating and isolating. He observed his own reactions, recording them in a way that he thought of as dispassionate, but that caused him to shake as violently as when Vortex had first brought him here.

The copter seemed pleased, but far from satisfied. The first time he left, First Aid heard him stop someone in the corridor. He caught the sound of raised voices and clanging metal, then pleas and moans and finally a loud and grating scream. First Aid couldn’t tell who it was, nor whether or not they were willing. When Vortex came back, his rotor blades were bent and there were cracks in the glass of his cockpit. First Aid cringed further into the cold embrace of the corner and pretended not to notice.

Every so often, he caught a flash of sensation from his team mates, a fragment of fear, a shard of frustration. Were they searching for him? Did they know where he was? He shrank back from the program; what if they received glimpses in return? His despair, his shame, his guilt at having overloaded. They didn’t need to see that, to have it add to their desperation.

As the overcharge slowly dissipated, the foamy layer separating him from the world began to fade.

“Don’t you want to rest?” Vortex asked. He sat on the bunk, his bent rotors drooping over his shoulders. “You’re so quiet. Hardly a sound, even in overload. Amazing.”

“Disappointed?” First Aid snapped. He had the sudden urge to antagonise. Maybe Vortex would put him in stasis lock, just like Swindle. At least he’d be out of it then. “I know what you said to Blades.”

“No, I’m not. Although we’ll have to do something about your over-bearing sense of shame. It’s counter productive.”

“I thought you liked that,” First Aid said. “Your gift to your enemies? What was it, shame and regret? Well, congratulations.”

“You’re wasted as an enemy,” Vortex said.

“So, you _are_ going to reprogram me. That figures.”

“Again, no,” Vortex replied. He ran his hand along First Aid’s thigh. “Simply some… corrective therapy.”

Not again, not so soon. “Don’t touch me!” It was louder than he intended, but for some reason it worked. Vortex shrugged, his broken rotors swaying, and withdrew his hand. The same subroutine that had told First Aid to acquiesce now told him to shut up, to stay still, stay calm. Get slagged, he thought. “Exactly how glitched _are_ you?” he demanded. “I’m just a medic. I was made to help people. _People_ , as in _human_ people, as in the squishies that you and your kind like to kill and maim and torture and just plain ride straight over whenever it suits you! So, what? Are you going to turn me into a Decepticon, is that it?”

Vortex shrugged again, but at least First Aid had his attention. No, wait, that wasn’t a good thing.

“You’re cute when you’re angry.”

“What?” Whatever kind of a response was that? The kind to wrong-foot you, he thought, and it worked.

“Will you fix my rotors?”

“No!”

Vortex grinned, as though First Aid had said something particularly entertaining. “Please?”

“No, I won’t. And how do you know I won’t sabotage you? Anyway, I heard what you were doing out there. Is that how things work down here, you get to… to have anyone who can’t run fast enough to get away? You deserve to be in pain.”

“Really?” Vortex tugged on one of the rotors, and a shower of sparks cascaded over his chassis. He shuddered, did it again. “Mmmmm, that’s kinda nice. You wanna help out here?”

First Aid lay his head on his knees, his hands tucked in his waist, where Vortex couldn’t easily grab them. “You’re glitched,” he said. “Thoroughly glitched.”

“I was a long while in sensory deprivation,” Vortex said, as though it was a fact as plain as the colour of energon. “What do you expect?”

What was that? An explanation? An excuse? First Aid choked on the thought. Sparks glittered in his peripheral vision, and Vortex laughed. Happy, self-absorbed, and completely and utterly contrived. He spoke the truth, played out the truth, but all wrapped in a package of suggestion and allusion, always tailored to his audience. He was broken, but every facet had been polished, every fragment poised. Manipulative to the core.

First Aid felt a sudden spur of anger at his team. They should have come for him already. They should have rescued him from this, taken him back home where… where what? Where he could hide in repair bay and lash out like Blades had done, hurting every second. All because they hadn’t got to him in time.

“Leave me alone,” First Aid said. “I want to recharge.”


	5. Chapter 5

He rested poorly, waking often, startled and alert. Each time it took him longer to settle, to calm the flow of fuel around his systems and stabilise his disrupted energy field.

Vortex had gone, maybe to repair bay, maybe to find someone else to frag. First Aid didn’t care; he hoped the ‘con never came back.

The energon had also gone. Could be the Stunticons had drunk it all; if there was any left, Vortex had moved it. He pawed over the wall, searching for panels and drawers, but all he found were old datapads. Jittery, and with nothing else but the unwanted TV to occupy him, he turned one of them on. Nothing but glyphs in an old Cybertronian language, one he didn’t understand. He put it back, carefully, angry with himself for not breaking it.

He was angry at himself for a whole host of other reasons too.

Sitting upright on the berth, his dented helm against the wall, he tried to catalogue them, to bring them into some semblance of order. Acceptance was the first step to recovery, he told himself. Accept that he had a problem – not just Vortex – and try to tackle it using the same thorough and logical steps he would use with any other mech.

The same steps he’d tried to use with Blades, until the threat of a gulf between them drove him to attempt the unthinkable. So what if hadn’t actually gone through with it? He’d broken into the brig with the clear intention of killing Vortex, of poking the gun between the energon bars and firing at the Combaticon’s processor until all trace of life or personality or programming was erased from the face of the universe.

He’d never been punished for it.

Blades knew. Skyfire knew. Hot Spot knew, and there were probably others. But Optimus had never called him on it, nor Prowl. Hot Spot hadn’t even mentioned it except to hold the both of them, Blades and First Aid, in the warmth and love of the gestalt bond until the shaking stopped, and the rage and the fear eventually ebbed away.

He clutched at the memory of Hot Spot and Blades, huddled together on their human-style sofa, nothing to be heard but the purr of their engines over the background hum of the busy human city. But his mind kept slipping towards Vortex, towards that moment when he’d stood in the brig and fired, and had deliberately missed. He fell back into recharge with that one thought cycling through his processor.

He could have prevented this; he had failed.

* * *

He awoke to the sensation of safety. A soft flow of energy wrapped around his fractured field, holding him gently. It was reassuring and peaceful, and he didn’t trust it. His systems booted slowly, and he tried to ignore the hope building in his circuits. He wouldn’t be home, he knew; he wouldn’t come back online to see his team standing around him, bathed in the cool white light of repair bay.

No. He would online his optics to find Vortex watching him, a smile on his face as he fabricated soft Autobottish sentiments to confuse and to manipulate.

But when his optics came online, Vortex wasn’t watching him at all. Well, not exactly. He was stretched out on his side, head propped on the crook of his arm, his tail rotors spinning slowly, and he was gazing with rapt attention at First Aid’s hands.

“Don’t startle. If I was going to pounce, I wouldn’t have waited for you to wake up.” Vortex smiled, and First Aid tried to work out what it was calculated to achieve. “Although the offer’s always open.”

First Aid fought against the energy field, chasing after his tension, his fear and his hatred. “You won’t let me go either way,” he said.

“I never said that,” Vortex replied. “Don’t fight it. Relax. I know what I’m doing.”

“And that’s supposed to be reassuring?” First Aid sat up, carefully, and backed himself into the corner again.

“It means I’m unlikely to break you,” Vortex said. He curled his free arm around First Aid’s feet and gently stroked a wheel rim. “Accidentally.”

Wonderful, must be heavily implied threat day. First Aid shuddered, trying to jog his processor free of the EM field, to shut down the sensors on his wheels. But it was as futile as trying to move his legs.

“Hmm, come here,” Vortex said.

First Aid froze, pressing his back against the wall. The conflict between the manufactured aura of safety and comfort, and his own emotive response was sickening.

When he didn’t move, Vortex stretched and raised himself up to kneel at First Aid’s feet. “I said, come here.” Vortex loomed, the pressure of his forcefield mingling with the falsely reassuring energy signature, making First Aid’s processor spin. Vortex took hold of the flanges either side of First Aid’s face, squeezing just hard enough to hurt.

First Aid whimpered. An apology formed, unbidden. He pressed his lips together and refused to let it be said.

“Now, what would it take to get you to relax?” Vortex asked. His tone was measured, reasonable. Pleasant, almost. First Aid couldn’t find an answer; that small amount of pain indicated a world of possibilities he just didn’t want to think about.

“More importantly,” Vortex continued. “What would it take to get you to start enjoying yourself?”

First Aid tried to shake his head, but the pressure held him still. Oh no, not again, please. “You’re hurting me!”

“What are you going to do about it?” Vortex asked. His fingers transformed, claws raking the side of First Aid’s helm. The copter leaned in, chassis resting on the medic’s knees. First Aid didn’t know what to think, where to look. Red optics or that curving, vicious smile. Nowhere to hide, he was as far into the corner as he could get, and the claws had begun to roam.

“Arg, please, stop it!” he cried. Hateful, stupid reaction. But the talons were sharp, threatening to cut through his paintwork, down to the bare metal. “Stop hurting me!” Maybe that’s what Vortex wanted, a command like before, a small show of defiance.

But the talons continued to wander, trailing cold paths over his shoulders and arms, into the dip at his waist, down to his interface panel.

First Aid fought the topor of the energy field and covered the panel with his hands. Not that, anything but that. “Stop it!” What did the copter want? Resist or relax? He had no idea. So many conflicting messages, no space to second guess. No room to think of anything but the pressure of those hands, and the bright crimson light like blood from an injured human, too stark, too strong to be real.

And always that slightly twisted smile, raised higher on one side than the other, as though to compensate for the welding scar.

Vortex leaned closer, lips grazing his cheek. “I’ll give you a hint,” he whispered. “Be forceful with me.”

No! The word formed within his vocaliser, but First Aid choked it down. He wasn’t Blades. He couldn’t do that. He noticed the reflection of his optics glinting blue in the glass of Vortex’s visor and thought, _this isn’t happening. I’m in shock, my processor has malfunctioned_.

“I know there’s fight in you,” Vortex said. But there wasn’t. He was weak, all hydraulic pressure diverted to keeping his palms flat over his interface panel.

“Would it be different if Groove was here? Would you find it in yourself to fight for your team?”

“Leave them out of this!” First Aid yelled, and it was as though his CPU had fragmented. He could taste the bitter hatred, feel his hydraulic pressure increase, but it was at a remove, as though he was outside of himself, watching himself react in exactly the way Vortex wanted him to. He seized Vortex’s wrists, noting how the copter immediately acquiesced, how he put up only the slightest resistance to being flung back onto his rotors, pinned to the bunk with First Aid leaning over him.

Too late, First Aid felt the chain drop over the side. The charge seared through him and he screamed. Beneath him, Vortex shuddered and sighed, his optics dimming for one brief moment.

“Mmmm, you can do that again.” He twisted, kicking First Aid’s knees straight, forcing him down.

First Aid cried out, crashing onto Vortex’s chassis. The chain jolted again, not as hard, but still hard enough to hurt. First Aid reeled, dizzy and uncoordinated. How was there an arm around his waist? Hadn’t he pinned Vortex by the wrists? But his hands were empty, fingers splayed over Vortex’s shoulders, and there was a pressure again on the flange to the left of his face, talons pinching just enough for the sensors to register.

“Do I have to repeat myself?”

“Arg! No, please don’t, I can’t…”

The pinching sensation dissolved, swept away by a flood of calm-safe-secure, a fluttering pulse of forced pleasure all through his sensor net.

“You can,” Vortex told him. Vortex twisted again; a sudden lurch, a flare of auxiliary engines, and somehow the ‘con was on top. He slithered back, sliding a hand between the energon cuff and First Aid’s tender axle. “Holding the chain won’t hurt you. Try it now,” he said, his other hand gripping First Aid's waist.

First Aid wasn’t sure how he was meant to jar the chain. Not that he wanted to, but Vortex’s free hand was so close to his interface panel, and the grip around his ankle was growing tighter. First Aid brought his leg back sharply, jolting the links. He flinched, but instead of the harsh stab of current all he felt was a mild tingling.

“More like it,” Vortex said. “Keep going.”

He wrapped his hand around the loose links, grateful that the shock was only administered at the cuff and not along the length of the chain, and pulled again. Vortex cried out, an incoherent happy sound, and lay his head on First Aid’s abdomen.

“Again,” he said. “And again, and don’t stop or I’ll tear out your optics and ahhhhhhh that’s so good… Harder!”

First Aid cringed and tugged the chain. If only he could jar it enough to weaken the metal, perhaps crack the bracket where it attached to the wall; maybe he could break it properly when Vortex had gone. He wrapped another loop around his hand and pulled as hard as he could. Vortex writhed, his rotors quivering. The cuff spat sparks; First Aid hissed, juddering as the current worked its way through them both. He tugged again and again, hauling on the bracket as Vortex uttered an unintelligible stream of nonsense noises that sounded as though they ought to have been words.

The air stank of burning paint, a bitter chemical reek as repellent as the warmth of the interrogator’s armour. Vortex’s engine purred, soft vibrations mingling with the pulse of his energy field and forcing little ripples of pleasure through First Aid’s sensor net. First Aid focussed on the dull metal around the TV and tried to escape the cascade of sensation.

Vortex in overload was loud, intense, clutching at First Aid’s armour, biting on the edge of his interface panel. Clinging to him afterwards, shuddering, purring.

First Aid didn’t hear the door open, but he heard it close. A flash of red and white wavered, reflected in the grey of the TV screen.

“So, that’s where you are,” Starscream said. “I’ve been pinging you.”

Vortex hardly moved, just tilted his head. “Otherwise occupied,” he said. “Sir.”

Starscream’s wing flaps flickered. “I can see that,” he said. “Hmm, dirty little thing, isn’t he?” First Aid realised that he was still holding the energon chain. He could only imagine how that looked.

Vortex grinned. “You have no idea.”

“I meant he could do with cleaning. But if you say so.” Starscream sniffed. “Megatron has condescended to listen to your proposal. Tomorrow, after duty cycle.”

Proposal? First Aid tried to turn, to get up off his back, but Vortex was too heavy. What proposal? Starscream bent over them, and it only then occurred to him exactly how large the seeker was. His face mask snapped back into place an astrosecond before he realised what a bad idea that would probably turn out to be.

Starscream inspected his helm. “What’s his alt mode?” he asked.

“A device to transport injured squishies,” Vortex replied, a trace of disgust curling his lip. He shuffled forward, crossing his arms over First Aid’s chest plates. “But it’s not your fault, is it?”

“You’ll have to do something about that,” Starscream said. “Still, he’s a good size.” He smiled. “Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t torn him apart already. But then, he seems to be behaving himself.”

“Mostly,” Vortex said, tapping First Aid’s mask.

Starscream sighed. “Megatron calls,” he said. “Slagger. Enjoy your recharge cycle. Wish _I_ knew what one of those was.”

The door swished shut, the lock clicking on. Vortex looked down into First Aid’s optics, a drowsy half smile on his lips, and something more. An expectation. Wincing, First Aid retracted his mask.

Vortex stroked the side of his face. “Well done,” he said. “You’re learning.”


	6. Chapter 6

Days passed, a week, more. First Aid watched his chronometer with mounting dread. Each joor took him further from his team, each cycle made it seem not just possible, but increasingly inevitable, that he would never see them again.

Couldn’t they guess where he was?

First Aid sat on the edge of the bunk, his face in his hands. When the door opened, he didn't bother to look up, what was the point?

This, it turned out, was a mistake.

"Make a noise," Swindle said. "Any noise at all, and I’ll put a neat little hole right the way through your central processor."

First Aid parted his fingers to see Swindle's pistol a mechanometer from his visor. The Combaticon was whole again, but dented, his repairs far from pristine. He grinned nastily. "Dead End, Brawl, get over here!"

"Wow," Brawl said, looming over the bunk. "It don’t look like he's been touched."

"Shut up and hold him down."

First Aid swung out, catching Brawl in the face. The tank roared. "Stupid Autobot," he spat, and pinned First Aid to the berth.

Dead End leaned against the wall by the door. "This is utterly inane,” he sighed. “Not to mention vulgar."

"For Pit's sake," Swindle swore. "We talked about this! Vortex won't know what hit him, it'll be hilarious and we'll make a fortune out of the security footage. Now give him the stimulant."

First Aid struggled, writhing and kicking, but Dead End simply leant over Brawl, out of reach, and pushed a data card into the input port next to his unusable communications hardware.

"There, done," Dead End said. "For what it's worth."

Brawl gave First Aid a very long and very dirty look before letting him go. "Hey Swin," Brawl said. "What I don't get is why Tex hasn't just fragged him. I mean _look_ at him."

Dead End huffed. "It's never really about interfacing," he said. "Don’t you know anything?"

Swindle gave First Aid the once over and nodded as though he approved of what he saw. "I don’t get it either," he said, apparently ignoring Dead End. "Tex always was a bit odd."

"Pot, kettle," Dead End muttered. "Brawl, as much as I can see of your face indicates an imbecilic incomprehension of current events. Do I need to spell this out to you?"

"Wha'?" Brawl said. "Spell what out?"

Swindle grinned unpleasantly, and the three headed towards the door.

The last thing First Aid heard before the virus kicked in was Dead End's smooth voice. "Which is more powerful," he asked. "Force or persuasion?"

* * *

Dead End’s question echoed through First Aid’s mind.

First Aid thought he knew the answer, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Knowing seemed important. The door clicked shut, closing him in with the unread datapads and the chain, the blank TV and the omnipresent odour of cleanser, of metal polish, of new paint.

Vortex had spent hours on him, cleaning and buffing until even the scorch marks from that day – so long ago, in another world almost, where a shot from Onslaught had broken Defensor into his constituent parts, and he had fallen into the cellar – had been erased.

If only First Aid hadn’t stopped to repair that cellar door. If only he’d taken Hot Spot’s offer of a hand up.

If only Vortex had been rougher with the cleansing.

The copter had taken his time, lingering over every plane and curve, toying with each sensor. Enjoying himself. Enjoying _him_. And all the time Vortex’s field had lapped against his own, an unending deluge of peace-calm-safety-belonging, while the stimulation of his sensor nodes went on and on, until First Aid had cried out his climax into the surface of the berth.

He shuddered at the memory, a tingle of current rippling through his sensor net. No, he wasn’t meant to react this way. It was wrong; what was he doing?

He backed up against the wall, such a familiar position, pressing himself to the cold metal. He needed cold, a heat sink, but his fans hadn’t kicked in. The virus. It must be. Was that what Dead End had been on about? But no, he’d been talking about Vortex, and the virus was Swindle’s doing. Swindle, who Vortex had beaten into stasis lock simply for one moment of forgetfulness. Simply for letting First Aid contact his gestalt.

First Aid tried to marshal his thoughts, but they were all over the place. The virus coursed through his circuits, slamming him with charge, bringing every touch – wholesome and unwholesome - to the forefront of his mind.

Blades on the floor of med bay, enthusiastic and excitable, their first time alone; Hot Spot’s hands on his shoulders, a gentle kiss on the crest of his helm; Streetwise, grimy and battle-torn, charged with the fierce joy of victory, beautifully heroic. The five of them, gestalt whole and uncompromised, a glittering sphere of love and joy and glorious, glowing pleasure.

Groove on the hot desert sand, hands on his waist, so gentle.

And other hands, equally gentle, but hiding a fierce aggression, possessive and unstoppable. Vortex leaning over him, kisses that were so close to biting, the scrape of talons, the rush of air from his rotors as they fanned. Each overload, raw and uncompromising, and utterly thoroughly unwanted, but the virus didn’t care.

 _I’m ill_ , First Aid thought. _I’ve been infected with foreign code. I need to stop thinking, I need to put myself in stasis lock, let it run its course, I need to…_ A vision of Blades on the roof, glowing like energon in the rising sun, transforming slow and languorous, then pulling First Aid urgently into the stairwell, away from the cameras. Blades slamming the door, holding him tightly in the dark as his interface panel snapped open and their cables clicked home in glorious synchronicity.

Scrap scrap scrap. Couldn’t think about that. Shouldn’t think about Blades, about any of them, not here. Not now. First Aid stood, pressing as much of himself as possible against the cool wall. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to catalogue his symptoms, but each thought tripped him up, each attempt brought him to Blades or Groove or Vortex.

He shuffled along the wall, searching for a cooler spot. How long had Vortex been gone? He checked his chronometer, but couldn’t focus on the readout. He slammed his hands against the wall; it didn’t matter, he couldn’t remember when Vortex had left. He hoped Vortex had gone to service Starscream, or whatever the slag he’d been doing all that time when he first left him alone. If he was gone long enough, the virus might just wear itself out before he got back.

Leaving First Aid with his other problems. But at least he wouldn’t have this one.

What had Swindle done?

First Aid crouched, head in his hands, then he was up again, pacing the length of the chain, each step a cautionary jolt. He snatched at the links, and steadied himself. He could pull it so hard that the jolt would knock him offline. He puffed air through his vents, like a human taking a breath before the plunge.

His arms failed him. He couldn’t do it.

A thought arose, half-formed, about the nature of fear, but was quickly submersed under a torrent of memories. Phantom touches rippled through his sensor net. He folded his arms over his abdomen, a whimper caught in his vocaliser.

He wanted Blades so much. Wanted him fast and quiet against the med bay door. Wanted to stroke his rotors afterwards, to lay him down on the repair berth and fall across his canopy. A keening wine broke the silence, followed by the whirr of fans. Oh Sigma, why couldn’t he be with Blades?

The door lock pinged green. First Aid found a new section of wall to stand against, as though the slightest drop in temperature would do something for his splintered processor, his trilling sensors.

Vortex had been fighting. Training, fucking, interrogating; it was all the same. His paintwork was scratched, dark spatters of oil on his canopy glass.

“You seem… agitated,” Vortex commented. He glanced around, suddenly wary. “What happened?”

“Don’t wan’ talk about it.” First Aid stuttered over the words. The thought came to him, slinking and poisonous, that he could use Vortex. That he could pound the copter into the berth and frag him senseless.

A trickle of charge seared through his interface hardware. “Guh!” he doubled over, knees clanging on the floor.

“Who was in here?” Vortex demanded. First Aid shook his head, optics down. Blue light reflected on his knees, little circles with their own tiny coronas. He choked a laugh.

Vortex typed something in the panel by the door. “You can tell me,” he said, softly.

“Swindle,” First Aid whispered, and suddenly he wanted to see Swindle curled in agony on the floor again while Vortex kicked the living slag out of him. “It was Swindle.” _He_ had done this, it was all his fault. Stupid blasted Combaticon with his nasty wheedling voice and his filthy avarice. Disgusting. But Swindle had said something. Something… important. First Aid couldn’t remember. Vortex knelt in front of him, rotors fanned out over his back. Like Blades, First Aid thought, and had to hold his wrist to stop himself reaching out.

“I don’t…” he began, but lost the thought halfway through. He gasped as Vortex took hold of his arm, the simple touch crackling across his armour.

Vortex pulled out the data card. “I see,” he said.

First Aid nodded. That was all right then, wasn’t it? The data card was out now. The virus would just go away. But he could feel it inside him, amplifying his responses, sybaritic and relentless.

“Look at me,” Vortex demanded. Subtle pressure of two fingers beneath his chin, tilting his head up. Vortex’s expression was unreadable, unless that was concern? First Aid heard the click of the datacard hitting the floor, the soft sound of his own hydraulics as he unbent a little, easing back against the wall. Strange how the light of his optics still reflected blue in the bloody gleam of Vortex’s visor. There was no mingling of colour, it was pure and clean, like Blades looking back at him. Although it wasn’t Blades, it was his own reflection, and he shouldn’t be here. Not this close. His energy field crackled, his armour buzzed.

A pulse of safe-protection-comfort from Vortex, transmitted through his EM field. Lies, manipulative and cunning, all wrapped up in the memory of forced overload. Another zip of charge through his interface hardware.

“Shouldn’t,” First Aid said, a tremor coursing from his heels to the crest of his helm. _Oh, Blades, please forgive me._

It would be easy to brace himself against the wall, to use it as leverage to knock Vortex onto his back. To connect their components and be done with it. But instead he found himself leaning forward, edging up just far enough to press their lips together. He unfocussed his optics, his field of vision dwindling until all he could see was the reflection of his own blue glow in the copter’s visor.

Vortex’s surprise felt like triumph. All thought of Blades or Groove or Streetwise dissolved like sugar in water, until there was nothing left but the taste of high grade, and the subtle ridges of glossa and denta as Vortex responded with enthusiasm. There was a trailing pressure of fingers along First Aid’s arms, then a palm cupped his jaw, another reached up to the row of atmospheric sensors along a wheel rim. Small rotors spun, and a breeze grazed the nodes.

He moaned against Vortex’s mouth as an overload blazed through his circuits. His hands closed around the copter’s rotor assembly and Vortex shuddered. But the charge didn’t dissipate, it remained, an urgent pulse teasing and tearing at him, bruising his sensor net.

He wished Swindle was dead. He wished _he_ were dead. He could see tomorrow, visions of cold confusion and steely regret, self-hatred and the bitter knowledge that he had gone against his core principles, had been too weak to resist.

He wished he wasn’t there, drowning in the molten heat of his enemy’s touch. Frag. He wished Vortex would just take him offline and then he wouldn’t have to worry about the future.

He gasped, intakes heaving; he didn’t mean it, it was just the virus. Vortex lifted him, hands on his aft and thigh, pressing him against the wall. Instinctively, he wrapped his legs around Vortex’s hips, a rotor juddering against the glass of his foot. His back grated against metal, his interface hardware alive with a frustrated, needy vibration.

“Vortex, report to the bridge.” Soundwave’s voice, over-loud and echoing through the PA. “Immediately.”

“Frag,” Vortex moaned, intakes heaving. First Aid whimpered as the copter bit his lower lip.

“Repeat,” Soundwave said. “Vortex, report to the bridge. Suggestion: disengage from test subject.”

“Gotta go,” Vortex said. He disentangled himself, and First Aid felt a slight jolt as his aft connected with… something. “Fragfragfrag. Back soon.” First Aid peered at the door, half expecting to see Soundwave standing there. Instead, he caught the tail end of Vortex’s rotors as it closed.

How had he got on the berth? Oh yeah, Vortex had put him there. He cringed, armour crawling, and dug his heels into the covering. Slag, he needed to interface. He tried to distract himself, clutching at shards of memory, brittle splinters of thought.

Did he have to stay where he was? He wasn’t sure. He remembered a threat, something about optics, but that felt like a long time ago. There had been someone else, another voice. Watching them? His interface cable sparked, discharging on the inside of its cover. He winced, cupping the panel with his hands.

His optics glitched, scattering warnings across his field of vision, fragmented and unreadable. He bent over, hugging his feet. His cables creaked, uncomfortably tense, as a trickle of pleasure-pain-panic invaded his circuits, and began to cycle around his systems.

What in Cybertron’s name had he been doing? A wash of shame flooded his processor, brief, intense. But the backlash was worse, a heady glow of arousal spreading out from his interface hardware, alien and unwanted, but unstoppable.

The virus.

He clung to the thought, laying his head on his knees. He cycled air through his vents, each intake rasping past sensors already over-stimulated, each motionless second only enabling the accumulation of charge.

He had to get rid of it. If only Blades was here. No! He clasped his helm, tried to squeeze out the wish. Blades should never be here; _he_ should be with Blades. Back at HQ, lying tangled in the soft breeze from the open window. He shuddered, picturing Blades’ muted optics, his sated smile; recalled running a finger the length of one perfect, warm rotor.

He grunted as his sensor net flared, denta gritted and screeching. This was all Vortex’s fault. Vortex and Swindle and their abhorrent, broken gestalt. First Aid rallied the hatred, the loathing, tried to convince himself that the charge was really just the unfamiliar lust for battle, that it was something pure and good, something he could use.

And it hurt, oh Sigma it _hurt_. His fingers twitched, and his optics roved, from the berth to the TV to the door to his own white feet, scuffed with lines of grey. A ghost of a thought hovered beneath the virus haze: he should do something about the charge. He shook it off, shuffling to the edge of the berth, as though sitting with his head between his knees, panting through his vents, would do anything for the pressure, the tension, the tingling, smothering _need_.

Pinned against the wall by Vortex, he’d been so close to releasing the catch on his panel. He stood, shaking and over-warm, the chain rattling at his heel.

 _Keep hold of the hate_ , he thought, _keep hold of the revulsion. If the virus wins, the psycho copter wins. Don't let that happen._


	7. Chapter 7

Far too little time passed before Vortex returned. Surely he hadn’t been gone long enough to walk to the bridge, let alone do whatever Soundwave wanted and then come back? Vortex’s fans were whirring; he must have hurried. But still. First Aid hugged his knees and pretended that his shivering had anything to do with fear.

Vortex coded the lock. “Now,” he said. “Where were we?”

 _Nowhere_ , First Aid thought. _Stay away from me_. An idea struck him, lightning fast through the virus haze. “Keep away,” he whispered. “You’ll get it too.”

“Unlikely,” Vortex said. “Swindle doesn’t have a death wish.” Someone had wiped his canopy, the smear of oil now gone. But there were still scuffs of red paint on his hips, a brush of white on his shoulder.

“Stay away from me.” Finally, First Aid’s thought made manifest, crackling and altogether too quiet. He flinched, his sensor net flaring as Vortex knelt in front of him.

“Now then,” the interrogator said. He trailed a finger around the inside of the shackle. “I don’t think we’ll be needing this for a while, do you?”

First Aid tried to re-initialise his cache, to gain some kind of clarity in the thickening fog. A click echoed through his rear axle as the lock released, and the energon chain clattered to the floor. Time to run, he thought, but there were hands on both his heels, fingers trailing upwards, grazing over sensitive nodes, pushing through the haze of his electromagnetic field. Then fingers between his knees, forcing his legs apart. His back struts straightened, some combination of the strange submissive subroutine and the virus causing him to uncurl.

“Better,” Vortex commented. He loomed, palms flat on First Aid’s hips, the thumb of his right hand bare microns from the edge of First Aid’s interface panel. “But still not quite there.”

First Aid expected him to lunge, for the padded surface of the berth to hit the back of his helm, for his world to be consumed by the red glow of those optics. He tensed, a shudder rippling through him as Vortex slowly moved his thumb.

“We know about the wheel rims,” he said. “What should we try next?”

“Get away…” First Aid activated his vocaliser, but he couldn’t tell whether the words had formed. He needed Blades, he needed his team. This was damaging, he didn’t need an alien glossa between the treads of his shoulder tire, an unwanted thumb circling endlessly at the edge of his interface hardware. He didn’t need the soft nibble of denta on rubber, each movement rippling through his tire to pluck at the pneumatic sensors; he didn’t need that new and smooth caress at the small of his back.

“Move your hands,” Vortex said, softly, his voice vibrating through the tire. Where to? He didn’t want to, he pressed them tighter, wincing as the panel bowed in, pushing on his access port. _Inappropriate grounding of charge_ , his databanks offered him, a fragment of something he should already have known. Painful, don’t do it. He gripped the edge of the bunk instead. Then clasped onto Vortex as the world swayed and he lost all sense of direction.

The thunk of metal on his back, plastic against his heels. On the berth, in the corner – his corner, the safest place. No, the least unsafe place. But not now. Someone’s door above his head, tiny wires dangling. Looked like Prowl’s. Can’t have been. Vortex knelt on the berth, between his legs. No way to close them. The pain receded, fading to nothing beneath the ever-present, pulsing need.

He slumped, trying to wiggle down the berth. Anything to get away from the pleasant vibrations buzzing through his axle, the intrusion of a glossa at his throat and a nuzzle of lips as Vortex shifted his attention. First Aid wished someone would disturb them. Anyone. An interruption. Hadn’t there already been an interruption? He wasn’t sure any more; each sensation melded into the next, and time had long since ceased to have any proper meaning.

Soundwave, the thought occurred to him, random like the little flashes of medical knowledge. His vocaliser crackled, a moan building in response to the slow, sliding pressure on his throat. He tensed, willing himself to hold it in. Make no noise, safer that way. What was it Blades had said, Vortex liked his victims to be loud?

First Aid yelled, startled, as Vortex pulled him down the berth. The ceiling rose in front of him, greyish purple, shadowed in the dim light. It wavered as his helm hit the padding, and tiny sparks burst through his HUD.

Pressure on his knees now, bent up, tiny patches of warmth appearing and disappearing along the inside of his thigh. He looked down to catch Vortex looking back at him, knowing, proprietary, kissing his way along a seam. First Aid heaved in air, struggling to cool his processor and scour the tingle from his circuitry. He looked away again, then back. Was it better to know what was being done to him? He gasped as Vortex’s glossa caught on a node, fingers clutching at the berth. A soft sigh of vents over his pelvic armour, a pulse of need-want-care from the copter’s treacherous EM field. First Aid gritted his denta, fists clenched as the touch rippled out, flooding his sensor net and crashing through his interface relays.

His frame relaxed, unbidden, making contact with the berth. Panting, fans whirring, he waited for the heat of overload to cool. Vortex stroked his bodywork, hands splayed, taking him in.

“Perfect,” he said. “Don’t worry, Soundwave promised to isolate the security feed for a while. There’s no one watching.”

“Not that,” First Aid said. “Don’t.” It was so hard to piece together his thoughts, to make a meaningful mosaic from the fragments and feed them through his vocaliser.

Vortex shuffled back, rotors quivering as they fanned. “Mmmm, come here.” He reached for First Aid’s wrists and tugged gently, half urging and half pulling him upright. First Aid let himself be handled. All his strength had burnt away with the last overload. He ached, a dull throbbing pressure centred on his interface cable. Hadn’t he thought of using the copter? His connector tingled, the covering of his panel threatening to release.

“Don’t… mmphf!” The charge crackled through him as Vortex pulled him close, lips pressed against his. He grabbed Vortex’s shoulders and heaved. “I said don’t!” But breaking the kiss had done nothing for the charge.

Vortex grinned, smoothing his hands around First Aid’s waist. “Really? You going to do something about it? Because if you’re not…”

Do something about it? He didn’t quite understand, but the virus seized hold of his hydraulics, pulling him back from the drowsy weakness which had filled him in the wake of his last overload. The faintest of alarms flickered in the corner of his HUD as he shoved Vortex back against the berth. _I said, don’t touch me!_ he thought, but the words were lost somehow, deleted before they could reach his vocaliser, and all he saw was the reflection of blue in Vortex’s visor, the juddering rotors pressed flat against the bunk.

“Tried to kill you,” he said quietly, a growl growing somewhere in his throat.

“Wanted to frag you senseless,” Vortex whispered, reaching up to the flanges of his helm, each brush of his fingers a threat. “Still do.”

First Aid whimpered at the touch, tried to throttle a moan as Vortex stroked his helm, his arms, his shoulders, something more than desire written in the curve of his smile.

“Agh!” First Aid bit his own lip as Vortex slid a palm across his interface panel.

“Want you,” he said, softly, gently. “So very much.” He leaned his head to the side, nibbled lightly on First Aid’s wrist. “I can show you sensors you didn’t even know you had.”

First Aid offlined his optics. He could taste energon, a thin trickle seeping into his mouth from where his denta had pierced his own lip. Pressure on the back of his helm, a hand tugging him down, slowly. This time, he failed to pull away from the kiss. This time, he parted his lips, allowed the exploration of an alien warmth.

This time, he responded.

 _Forgive me, Blades, please forgive me._ The thought rattled through his processor, a stream of nonsense syllables as Vortex licked the energon from his lips, the revolutions of the copter’s engine a soft, echoing vibration at the tip of his glossa.

First Aid became aware of the alarm again, a pulsing flash of light where no indicator should have been. It wasn’t real, he thought; it was something dreamed up by the virus to keep him busy, keep him distracted, while he edged ever closer to the point of no return.

But wasn’t that where all this was heading anyway? Interface, relieve the tension, release the charge, safely, appropriately. The way he was designed to.

There was a long moment between the realisation that he was going to do something utterly and horribly irrevocable and the soft sound of his interface cover retracting. He lent into the kiss, following the wave of tingling arousal as Vortex explored his waist and hips, and told himself that he could go back. He didn’t have to do it. He could keep hold of the catch, could grab for the chain in its heap on the floor, shackle Vortex to the wall. But the thought of Vortex chained sent a frustrated ripple along his cable, a crackle through his access port.

With a click of a latch and the subtle hiss of hydraulics, the cover slid aside. Vortex purred against him, pulling him down onto his chassis.

“Oh!” First Aid froze as a finger grazed the surface of his panel, brushing lightly across his port. Another soft sound as the copter released his own cover, then the blackness of his offlined vision dissolved into iridescence as the connector slotted into place.

“Oh, you feel so _good_ ,” Vortex sighed, and each word echoed though First Aid’s lips. He felt his cable unravel, felt smooth fingers around his connector as Vortex pushed it into his own port. “Mmmmm, oh Sigma that’s so... frag, you’re hot.”

“Shut up!” First Aid panted. “Just shut the frag up.” He sighed, all tension dissolved in the flow of data, all thought suspended as his every sensor flared simultaneously. Everything tingled, the charge rising quickly, bursting across his sensor net in an overload that left him dizzy, venting desperately, clutching at Vortex’s shoulders. He cried out, surprised, as an echo of Vortex’s own overload shuddered through him.

Vortex held him tight, kissing his lips, his cheeks, sending a teasing sequence of instructions through the interface, making him shudder. Too much, it was all too much; First Aid sent something back through his own cable, a spike of satiation on the point of pain, sparking with all the rage he could dredge up, the tatters of his hatred, the ragged remnants of his fear.

What he got in return was brief and disturbing, a sharp peak of arousal followed by the scrape of lips, hot and harsh against his throat. “Do it again.”


	8. Chapter 8

**The morning after**

“Good Ferrari,” Vortex said pleasantly. “Now get lost.” He closed the door in Wildrider’s face and set the cubes down on the edge of the bunk. Then he paused. “Frag,” he said. “I thought we’d got over that.”

“What?” First Aid snapped. He huddled in the corner, shivering; his databanks still wouldn’t give him a clear picture of the weeks he had lost. “What do you mean?”

“This.” Vortex loomed over him, and trailed a long, slender talon down the side of First Aid’s mask. “Open up,” he said.

“Why?” Had he removed his mask before? Or had it removed for him? His lower lip stung, just another unpleasant sensation in a world of aches and pains. He probed it with his glossa; crust of dried energon, scrape of torn metal. What had Vortex done to him?

“You need to refuel,” Vortex said. He held a cube under First Aid’s chin. It was fresh, the fumes slamming into his olfactory sensors. “Mmmm, you’re delicious,” Vortex whispered. “Are you sure you don’t want me to nibble on your wheel rims? I love the way your optics flicker when you overload.”

First Aid turned his head, staring hard at the wall. “Not thirsty,” he said. It wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to say ‘get slagged’, he wanted to tear out Vortex’s optics just for looking at him, for implying that they’d… been together, for sitting there marked with red and white, his twisted smile replete with vile promise.

“Know what else I like?” Vortex said. He took a slip of energon, slow and lazy. First Aid’s main fuel line constricted; scrap, that energon smelled good.

“I don’t care,” First Aid responded. He wanted to claw at the walls, to howl down the gestalt bond his pain and rage and confusion, his exhaustion. But he couldn’t see a clear channel, could only feel an echo of his own frustration, not even certain it was his team he saw or a reflection of himself, lost and alone and utterly, thoroughly terrified.

“I like it when you get angry.” Vortex held the energon between them, smiling over the lip of the cube. “And I _love_ what you did to my rotors. Are you sure you don’t want some?”

An alert sounded, a series of intrusive little beeps that seemed to come from Vortex's communicator. "Mmmm…” he stretched and put the cube down. “Time to get you polished," he said. “Maybe a quick touch-up…”

"What? Why?" First Aid flinched as Vortex stroked his ankle then reached around to slide his talons under the medic’s wheel well. First Aid couldn’t help but cower, then hiss as a jolt of pure, white agony rolled along his axle and up his leg strut.

Vortex hefted the open shackle, still smiling, then let it drop on the floor.

First Aid cringed, huddled over his hands.

Vortex caressed the side of his mask. “That wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t moved,” he said, as though First Aid should have known. As though the pain was his fault, and not Vortex’s. The interrogator spun his tail rotors, a cooling breeze over the stinging metal, and smoothed his palm along First Aid’s forearm.

“Stop it,” First Aid said, and it came out as a squeak. “Don’t…” He’d been here before. The realisation hit him as one fragment of his fractured memory united, unbidden, with another. One glimpse of that missing fortnight. He shook his head, shivering. “You can’t…”

“Can’t what?” Vortex said. He tapped First Aid’s chest plates, where streaks of grey marred the bright red of his finish. “Can’t give you a fresh lick of paint? A nice polish?” Vortex sighed, his engine revving. “Soundwave wants to see you. You want to look your best for him now, don’t you?”

* * *

First Aid gleamed, conspicuous and over-bright, his new paint hardly dry. It was worse, somehow, than the grey; worse than the dim, grimy scratches, evidence of intimacy that he still could not remember. The filth had seemed fitting, appropriate for this pit-spawned place. But the newness, the crisp, clean colours, the shining red of his Autobot insignia… It was an insult. The humiliation burned, compounded by the glares and calls of other mechs as Vortex marched him through the labyrinth of the Nemesis, talons around his cuffed wrists, claws sliding over his armour.

First Aid didn’t ask where they were going; he didn’t see the point. Wherever it was, it would be bad. Possibility after possibility ran though his processor, and a cruel buzzing dread seeped into his every joint and servo.

He scanned the corridors for distinguishing marks, anything he might use to gain his bearings.

It was a distraction; a part of him knew he’d never use that information. Whatever Soundwave planned would be as irrevocable as the interface.

Vortex brought him to a halt in front of a closed double door. A Decepticon insignia gleamed purple from the polished steel, and a pair of cameras swivelled to watch them. The medic’s tanks echoed, a hollow swill of dregs, as Vortex keyed an access code.

The doors rolled back and First Aid tensed; Soundwave was immense, a dark bulk in the shadows, bent over a bank of computers. First Aid had never been so close to him before, never had the chance to appreciate the sheer size of the mech. He stalled, heels screeching against the floor as Vortex tugged him slowly into the room.

Soundwave glanced up, optics flaring. “Specimen: interesting,” he commented, the odd harmonics of his voice reverberating through First Aid’s armour. “Strap him down.”

First Aid ground his denta together as Vortex patted him on the aft and pushed him towards the… contraption. He could think of no other word for it. A chest-high platform as blue as Soundwave’s paintwork, clung all over with wires and cables, hung with chains.

He shook his head. “What are you doing? You can’t do this.” His vision blurred as power re-routed to his limbs, prepared him for transformation. He was ready to move, to run, to drive, as fast and as far as he could. But the door clanged shut behind them, and Vortex hauled him onto the platform and tightened the restraints.

“What are you doing?” First Aid tried to stop speaking, told himself it was undignified, it was craven and cowardly and wrong, but his vocaliser continued regardless. “Don’t do this, please. You don’t have to do this. Let me go, my team are looking for me. You can’t keep me here, just let me go. Please… ”

“No,” Vortex whispered. His hands trailed over the restraints. “Perfect.”

“Vortex,” Soundwave said. “Control yourself, or I will have you removed.”

Vortex backed away, out of First Aid’s field of vision.

There was no give in the chains, no looseness in the straps. First Aid struggled, but all it did was add another web of pressure to the aches and stinging pains that riddled his sensor net. With his head back, he couldn’t see what was happening, could only feel the matter-of-fact roaming of Soundwave’s hands, the tiny click as a connection was made with his communications hardware, another in his medical port.

He whimpered at pressure on his interface panel, hissing, cables taut as the cover slid aside.

“Don’t do this, please!” He strained against the bonds, his armour bowing. If only he could get it to buckle, he’d have some wiggle room.

He screamed as Soundwave made the connection, and a searing stream of atonal energy slammed through his every firewall, invading his databanks, flooding his CPU.

“Commencing upload,” Soundwave commented. “Test subject agitated. Detecting effects of stimulant virus, administered recently. Vortex, explain.”

“Swindle’s idea of a joke,” Vortex said. “I dealt with it.”

“Hmm…” Soundwave moved, tugging slightly at the cable. “Swindle will be reprimanded. 85.6% corruption of short term memory. Long term storage uncompromised. Gestalt programming might prove problematic.”

“Don’t touch that!” First Aid cried. “Leave it alone! Get away from me!” He thrashed against the bonds, audials echoing with the creak and squeal of his armour.

“Agitation beyond acceptable parameters,” Soundwave said. Something pulsed through the link, dark and steely and horribly cold. First Aid collapsed, the tension not simply released but negated, as though it had never existed at all. Every cable and linkage failed, hydraulic pressure at nil. He had nowhere to fall, just the few inches he’d managed to raise himself from the platform; nonetheless, the impact was a shock.

He felt another scream build in his vocaliser, but no sound emerged. They were reprogramming him, they had to be. They were going to obliterate him, wipe him clean and start again, turn him into a drone, an automaton.

“Negative,” Soundwave said, and there was something lilting about his voice, an exuberance, anticipatory. “Reprogramming is the last resort. Experience: valuable. But there must be safeguards.”

It was a threat, First Aid realised, and even worse for the compliment that carried it: _do what we want, put your knowledge to our use, or we will destroy you utterly._ And they could. First Aid scrambled for control of his body, but Soundwave had isolated his consciousness, denying him access even to his optical sensors. Vortex leaned into his field of vision, expression lost beneath his battle mask.

“Download complete,” Soundwave said. “Recovering corrupted data.”

First Aid struggled, mute and helpless, impotent against the deluge of information, the sunburst of memories as Soundwave scoured his short term storage, collating and restoring, compiling. Undoing the damage, giving him back the past two weeks. The previous night. No, this couldn’t be happening, this couldn’t…

“Data retrieved,” Soundwave said. “Fifteen astroseconds until download integration complete. Fourteen… thirteen…”

Soundwave’s voice dissolved, a static hiss. A galaxy of small, black stars filled First Aid’s vision, clouding out all optical input, crowding and pressing, until the darkness consumed him.

* * *

The humiliation stung. A fierce buzz of remembrance seared through his circuits, pulsing in each and every sensory node. It was visceral, tactile, agonising. First Aid huddled on the platform, knees against his chest, hands over his face.

He was alone. Soundwave had ordered Vortex out, had stated his wish to ‘observe the test subject’ as though First Aid was nothing but an experiment. Then Soundwave had also retreated, pausing only to remove the restraints.

First Aid shuddered; what had he done? He remembered the thrill of overload, awash with shame, his armour crawling. It was wrong, this disconnect between his sensory systems and conscious thought. Vortex had taken advantage. He must have paid Drag Strip to pour high grade down his throat, to convince him it was his own idea. He hadn’t taken First Aid to med bay when the virus hit – like he should have, like any sane mech would – but had kept him alone and isolated, had twisted every data stream, controlled all input. He’d ground him down until there was nothing left but the manufactured lust, the pain and the hate.

He shuddered with the recollection of forced climax, as though the convulsion could somehow shake off the ghost of unwanted touch. It wasn’t just what the interrogator had done to him, but what _he_ had done in return. Violent things, unspeakable things. Things Vortex had enjoyed.

Deluded; he’d thought he could tell himself later that it was revenge, that it all came from the virus. He could see his old thought patterns, as clear as the minute imperfections in the metal of his palms.

He’d thought he was being clever, that he could outthink the virus and the copter and the whole situation, and somehow emerge with his dignity and his psyche in tact.

How wrong he’d been.

Foolish, stupid Autobot. He considered putting himself in forced recharge. See what Soundwave thought about that. Could he put himself in stasis lock? He wasn’t sure. Could he do anything without being ordered? Was he even sentient any more?

He didn’t seek after the bond. If his team were coming, they were coming. Let them. If they weren’t… what did it matter any more?

Back in HQ, sitting on the roof as an acid sunrise burned into his optical sensors, First Aid had thought he understood why Blades didn’t want to share what had happened in the twister. He’d been confident in his medical knowledge, in his empathy for his team mate. He’d been so patronising, so entitled, certain that he could help, _should_ help, and that Blades should let him.

He’d thought he’d known Blades, and that knowing him, being bonded with him, was enough that he could feel his pain. He’d thought he’d known why Blades wanted to keep it from them. But he hadn’t. Sure, he’d understood the theory, but he hadn’t really _known_. How could he?

He did now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Part 1. Part 2 will follow as soon as it's complete. Thanks for reading :)


End file.
